Alive
by Stefan-sama
Summary: The thoughts, musings and reflections of a veteran of the Imperial Stormtrooper Corps.


**Whee, my first Star Wars fic. I've always had a soft spot for old veterans, I guess I'm dedicating this to those who've served in any army, ever. Anyway, the story of the 501st in the second Battlefront (maybe I should've put this in the Games category of Star Wars, instead...) left a strong impression on me, and I finally decided to get around to doing a fic about them. I ended up creating another legion, a nameless one, since I couldn't use a legion composed entirely of clones, but this is Vader's Fist in spirit, at least. Maybe I'll call it the 666th legion. Then again, sorry if that offends anyone. Anyway, enjoy!**

**Alive**

Looking back, I'd say it was an idiotic decision. The worst one of my life, definitely so. I had an education, a fair amount of money, a nice, clean personality. What the hell was I thinking? But, of course, when you're young, the most nonsensical of things can make absolutely perfect sense.

At least I wasn't alone when I joined up with the imperial forces. Yes, I'd been prepared to spend my service alone and lonely, but quite thankfully we met in the lunch line on the first day out on the frontlines. He'd knocked my plate over. Typical of him, as I later learned. Loud, unkempt, clumsy. Like any other stormtrooper. But he was also ready to apologize for anything he did, to admit his mistakes. He was your average idiotic dreamer, constantly talking about how he wanted to settle down with a smart wife who could cook well, have a couple kids, get a nice job.

What was best about him is how he somehow kept that always cheerful attitude even after experiencing the trauma, the pains, the horror of the battlefield. In fact, he was the one who had his arm blown clean off by a mine, protecting a couple of cadets that were way too out of their league. Then again, our company needed a sane face. Too often I'd wake up and chat with a man I'd lived with for years, ate from the same pot with, shared each other's dreams with, and watch him die in agony on the frontlines just hours later.

That was the worst part. We were expected to be killing machines, not caring about the thousands of people we slaughtered or even our brothers in arms that died without even a tombstone to remember them by. Sometimes we weren't allowed even to search for their bodies just to save a couple of hours' march.

That was something else we all detested: our superiors. Yes, there was the occasional one who actually respected we infantrymen as human beings. But for every one of them, there were ten or even twenty pompous windbags, monsters who thought of us as merely expendable numbers on a sheet of paper, who cared more about promotions and rankings than human rights and conditions.

At least we had each other. Every day we survived without flying off to the big barracks in the sky brought us closer together as both men and as warriors. Eventually we became known as the disciplinary example of the empire, the force every general shivered at the thought of going up against. Sometimes we were thought of even more highly than the 501st in certain aspects, despite being a legion comprised of barely any clones. I myself found it hilarious that our strength hinged on something as flimsy as the concept of friendship. I'd thought I'd been let down too many times by too many people to ever trust anyone again.

I suppose it was her that let me do so. Funnily enough, it was pretty much the only act of compassion I'd ever shown, and it turned out paying off big. The equivalent exchange won't do that for you too often. I'd took a bullet for her and brought the guy down with me. She joined our little entourage after that, and she always had a smile on her face, some kind words to give, despite being constantly harassed for being one of the few female units in service. Thinking about it now, I probably loved her. But that's all in the past. She died paying me back for saving her, except it was a mine, not a bullet. I'd held her in my arms as she passed on. It turned out she'd loved me, too, funnily enough. After that, I reverted to the old, cynical man I am now. But I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself.

After all, that certainly wasn't the only tragedy I experienced. Maybe it was selfish of me, to be crushed so by her death and yet barely flinch when my other comrades were killed in action. But, of course, it wasn't only my comrades that were slaughtered. There were, of course, the enemy. People I gunned down thoughtlessly, yet had lives of their own, family and friends of their own, thoughts and feelings of their own, reduced to just targets in my head, to be shot down one after the other.

But what really scarred me were the hundreds of innocent civilians killed in the struggle, dying like flies simply for being in the way. I won't claim that I didn't assist in the massacre, but I do know I'm one of the few who feel guilt. Children, those were the worst. Seeing them drop dead by your hands with the knowledge that you killed them, it left a foul taste in your mouth for weeks and nightmares in your sleep for even longer.

Thankfully, the war ended, not a moment too soon. Some cadets shipped out late in the struggle were actually annoyed at the fact they didn't see enough of the battlefield. Most were, understandably, crushed at the fact that we lost to the "rebel scum". Veterans like us, on the other hand, cried the day they announced it out of happiness. The bloodshed, the agony, we were ecstatic to get away from it all, win or lose. In fact, most of us were too busy celebrating to even hear the circumstances of the loss. To this day, I still don't know.

Retiring, I grew old and frail after that without much of a fight. No one paid me much attention, and I liked it that way. The war had changed me too much. I'd left a young, happy, and idiotic optimist and come back an old, cynical pessimist. More patient, but yet perpetually pissed off at something or other. I spent most of my days in the rain, staring at the inscriptions of countless names on the memorials and tombstones of my friends, my comrades, my brothers and sisters killed in service.

But I guess I should be glad. After all, unlike them, I'm still alive.


End file.
